Camping Hontoon Island

Thus we found ourselves spending a February Saturday night sleeping in a tent with a dog.

Hontoon Island is a largely undeveloped 1,650-acre park separated from the mainland by the St. Johns River and tributaries with names like Dead River and Snake Creek. It is only accessible by boat, but a ferry operates between the island and the parking lot.

At various times before it became a state park in 1967, the island held a pioneer homestead, a boat yard, and dock for commercial fishing boats. Several hundred years ago, it was a favorite hangout of Native Americans, probably Myacan, who left behind a mountain of snail shells rising 30 feet above a cypress swamp on the west side of the island.

A 1 ½-mile nature trail runs from near the boat landing to the peak of the midden mound. Another several miles of trails runs to Snake Creek Landing, Oak Tree Landing, and Bear Landing.

"You can bike most of them," says park ranger Bill Wells. "But I find walking is the best way to see the island. You see a lot more at a slower pace."

Wells lives with his wife on a houseboat docked at the park. Two other rangers live in houses on the island.

"The island really about nature," Wells says. "We have a small playground and a little general store, but otherwise, it's very basic. Scenery and nature about sums it up."

The campsites and cabins are grouped together about a quarter-mile up an unpaved road from the visitor center. Wells helped us load our gear into the back of a van and drove us to our campsite. Unfortunately, a half-dozen or more tents and three or four cabins were visible from our site, spoiling any illusion of seclusion.

We set up camp and quickly got away from the mini-city that had sprung up in the campground.

The small island contains a startling variety of terrain, flora and fauna. Alligators and manatees are often seen in the river, and countless birds wading in the marshes. Deer and other wildlife inhabit the pine flatwoods, palm and oak hammocks, and cypress swamps.

We decided to avoid the weekend crowds on the nature trail and explore the less-traveled roads that lead to Bear and Snake Creek Landings. We hiked until we had absorbed a satisfying amount of wild scenery and worked up an appetite, then returned to camp to start making dinner.

Each campsite and cabin has a fire ring. Campers are not allowed to collect wood (or anything else, including artifacts) but can buy firewood from the rangers. We'd paid five bucks for a night's worth of well-seasoned logs.

I am not one of those guys who can start a fire with a chunk of flint, a penknife and some pocket lint; it takes me two butane lighters and a recycling bin full of old newspaper. However, I've discovered a shortcut--I cheat.

Kingsford (and probably other companies) make one of the best things ever invented- "just light the bag" charcoal. We'd brought two bags along. I lit one and soon had burgers grilling. Once dinner was cooked, making a cozy campfire was a simple matter of stacking a few logs teepee style over the still-hot coals and letting nature take its course.

Darkness descended on the island, and the creatures of the night began to stir. In the distance, a barred owl called out. Another one, closer by, gave his chilling reply. Raccoons and other nocturnal mammals rustled softly in the deep shadows.

After an afternoon of setting up camp and hiking, even the dog was dog-tired. We headed head for our cozy tent, hoping for a good night's sleep.

"Between 10 and 11, we like it to quiet down in the camp," Wells had said. Apparently, lots of campers had missed that memo. All around us, campfire conversations grew louder and louder. In the distance, techno music played from a portable stereo; elsewhere, someone strummed an acoustic guitar.

The din subsided around midnight. Soon, we began to discover the down side of camping close to the restrooms. All night long, campers trekked back and forth past our tent on their way to the latrine. Faust dutifully growled at each.

I finally slept for a few hours, but woke at first light. The dog stirred and wagged his tail hopefully. He probably needed to go for a walk.

We headed down to the river. In the early morning shade, scraps of ragged fog dangled from the palmetto scrub. The first rays of sunlight and a sprinkling of dew gilded the tops of distant cypress trees. It was dead quiet except for the occasional twitter of an early bird and the soft snuffling Faust made as his nose explored the trailside undergrowth.

The dog and I sat on the quiet riverbank, taking in the scenery. Rough night aside, the trip had been a great success, I decided. We had explored an old favorite place from a new angle, and the dog had proven to be a fine camping companion.

Back in camp, all remained still--the other campers slept peacefully. I considered loudly rendering a few off-key verses of "Kumbaya."

I thought better of it as I cut the plastic away from a tube of breakfast sausage.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, they say.  But breakfast is best served hot.  I lit another bag of charcoal.